


classy girls don't kiss in bars.

by diaghileafs



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/F, Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diaghileafs/pseuds/diaghileafs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And her producer is a God-send, akin to running a burn under cold water, two fingers of bourbon after a riot, expensive Sunday morning coffee in backstreet cafés; so hot that it scourns your tongue, so sweet you close your eyes..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	classy girls don't kiss in bars.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr.

Lix leans back in her chair, hears the familiar groan ripple through the silence, cigarette smoke curling round her fingers and swirling up to the ceiling. It's late, too late- her watch would read nigh on ten O'clock if she could see it, but she can't; the light from the corridor seeping through the gap under the door is growing dimmer and her lamp, angled to the other side of the office, illuminates Bel with its soft glow as she sits in an armchair, hair unpinned and bare feet tucked beneath her, reading the _Wolfenden Report_. The younger woman is oblivious to Lix's lingering gaze; brows knitted together and eyes dancing behind those heavily framed glasses over the reams and reams of documents, which are settled in her lap, blue dress having risen up her leg without her noticing- Lix notices it, becoming fixated on it; the forbidden, creamy skin of her upper-thigh, and the thought of running lazy kisses over it, her teeth nipping it softly until she leaves red marks, feels goose bumps prickle under her lips. She'll do it later, she decides, when they're sure they've heard Randall's footsteps descend down the hallway and the lights click off (once, three times) as they've grown so awfully accustomed to doing, before falling in each other's arms, giggling like excited schoolgirls running away from a Sister, yet still savouring every clumsy grab, every warm touch, as though it were the last time because it could be, they're all too aware of that, that they might be discovered and lose- not only their lover- but also everything they've worked so hard for.

Bel's young, Lix is all too aware of that too sometimes, after they've made love together on her rickety pull out bed or Lix's sofa (if it's one of those rare, blissful occasions where they've managed to get and it feels normal, not risky, just... them) and she's fallen asleep on her shoulder, murmuring words of adoration, her breath heavy thanks to sleepiness, whiskey and the way Lix's arms wrap around her. She's young and naive, naiver than the other woman; Lix Storm was never an ingénue. She worries that she is tainting her soul, that perhaps she'd be better off without her, no, of course, she would. Lix is just selfish. This is just pure self-indulgence because she hasn't been with _une autre femme_ since Paris, at a time when every man was a pig, a bastard, a danger. _Damn you, Randall_ , she curses silently, _damn you, damn you, damn you_. She'd despised him then and French women had been a safe beacon of red wine and perfume, she'd needed them like she needs Bel- someone to be there and tell her nothing can ever come between them, that nothing is stronger than love. A lie, she knows it is, but they're living a lie, Lix's façade is nothing more than a grand fabrication of untruths, fucking lies and they're the only things she wants to hear now.

And her producer is a God-send, akin to running a burn under cold water, two fingers of bourbon after a riot, expensive Sunday morning coffee in backstreet cafés; so hot that it scourns your tongue, so sweet you close your eyes and relish in rose-tinted memories of childhood to the gentle lull of passers-by walking to church; in order to sing hymns, thank Him for each day they wake to, cleanse their souls- something Lix stopped partaking in long ago, something she probably should do.

"Do you think it’s a sin?"

"What, sweetheart?" her voice is gravelly, it scratches the back of her throat and she numbs the pain with another smoke, allowing the smoke to fill her lungs because she'll feel like she were floating because angels don't have feet, that's what her mother used to say, because she longs for Death to embrace her, carry her off to a place where she isn't an alcholic, a forty-something chasing after a girl young enough to be her daughter; a place where Randall isn't a ghost, reminding her of the daughter she has... had.

Bel frowns for a moment, flicks off her glasses and stretches out her long legs in one swift motion, gracefully, so gracefully that the simple action causes Lix's heart to bound, "lesbianism," she repeats patiently as she gets to her feet languidly and pads over to the door, shutting it firmly with her palm, and closing the distance between her and the back of Lix's chair, her hands begin to caress her shoulders.

"No," she whispers, sinking into the comfort of her warmth, the circles in her muscles, "no, I don’t."

 Kisses begin chaining along her neck, she can feel the static through her shirt's thick cotton, "god, Lix," the sighs vibrates against her collar, sending shivers down her spine, "you feel like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders," and so, it starts once again; their endless night, their cycle of lust, longing and forgetting, "you need to let go," Bel's fingers find her buttons and she does.


End file.
